


Have Not Saints Lips

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Blasphemy, Dark!Flint, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Religion Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 18:09:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7518098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Silver does not have it easy as quartermaster of the <i>Walrus</i>.  Dealing with a spiraling Flint would have been hard enough with <i>two</i> legs, damn it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have Not Saints Lips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellel/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [ellel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellel/pseuds/ellel) in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



> I apparently think this fandom needs more blasphemy. Elle, I don't know if this is quite what you wanted, but I did my best for you! 
> 
> **Prompt:** Dark!Flint. 'He is getting worse.' - set during pre/301, Silver has been watching Flint closely in past few months and Captain is spiralling more and more out of control. Every raid gets more dangerous and bloody and he,as a new Quartermaster must deal with outcomes-such as replacing crew members and pretend not to see that his crew is terrified of Flint's moods and inventive new tactics.Silver gets angrier,while Flint gets annoyed at being lectured all the time. Silver confronts him again about one of the crew issues, but Flint's mood is different and he is playful and seductive and Silver is trying to resist-but Flint is impossible to resist and Silver falls prey to seduction.

***

 

Captain Flint smells of blood and gunpowder. It makes bile rise up in Silver’s throat, although, to be fair, it might actually be the stabbing pain radiating from whence his wounds are healing. If you can even call that healing. Does a tree heal if you cut off its branches? He supposes it does, in its own way, with nature’s inevitable force, grow new branches, even manages to sprout new foliage growth. Blossoms even. Somehow he doubts he is going to grow an extra appendage from all this.

Flint too seems to have lost a limb, or at least some kind of an organ. Many of the men whisper that it’s his heart. Silver remembers well watching the captain shaving off the last of his bright, copper hair while he was still convalescing in his cabin. He had pretended to sleep; the truth was that sleeping was difficult, between the pain and the nightmares. Flint had looked upon his own face in a tarnished glass and a strange look of resignation came over his features.

_So, this is who we are now._

And he had become. Silver wasn’t sure whom or what exactly. Had he ever known Flint that well to begin with? There had been moments, before Charles Town, when Silver could have sworn they had an understanding, a rapport, if you will. Their eyes would meet, their thoughts would align, and their heartbeats would synchronize. Or so Silver would imagine.

“He’s killing women now, too,” Silver says one night after a particularly bloody sally.

“Well, they killed _his_ woman,” Billy muses. “Can you blame the man for evening the scales?”

Everything that Silver thought he knew about Flint doesn’t sit right with this. He had watched Flint, watched him as if his life depended on it (because, in fact, it did). He saw the way he behaved with Eleanor Guthrie, with Abigail Ashe… with Miranda Barlow.

“No one had ever called Captain Flint the butcher of women and children before,” Silver points out, eyes drawn to the back of the captain’s coat, where he stands at the helm, eyes locked upon the horizon.

“We’re _pirates_ , Mr. Quartermaster,” Billy snorts and shakes his head as if Silver is the one who is insane and not the world.

But Silver knows it is the world that is mad. It is the world that has done this to him. And now all that’s left, all that tethers him to this vale of sorrows, is a lost man who has forgotten his own name. A man whose heart had been stolen. A man incapable of loving anyone because he cannot even love himself.

***

“Perhaps you should take more men with you next time?” Silver suggests cautiously, eyes passing over the cuts on Flint’s shoulder. Another perfectly good shirt ruined. What is even the point of having access to the riches in the fort if you’re going to get all your shirts sliced up and bloodied? That’s it - that’s what annoys him most. This blatant disregard for personal property.

“I cannot risk a heavy loss to the crew,” Flint responds gruffly, hand mechanically reaching for the stash of rum beneath his writing desk.

“The crew cannot risk the loss of its captain,” Silver protests weakly. “You’re bleeding,” he points out, feeling immediately like Captain Obvious. But blood is impossible to get out of porous wood. And Flint is bleeding right over his desk. It’s a perfectly decent desk, too.

“Your concern is noted,” Flint’s eyes move towards the door and Silver knows when he’s dismissed.

***

The town is on fire. Silver doesn’t remember the name of it, didn’t bother to take note of it one way or the other. What’s the point of remembering something that is about to be wiped off the map?

The _Walrus_ speeds along the waves under full sail. Silver is getting better at navigating the ship on one leg. Silver is getting better at navigating the recesses of Captain Flint’s mind, too, he thinks. He hopes.

“When will you have enough?” he asks.

“When they stop hanging men for piracy,” Flint growls.

“You’re drowning and there is no one out there who can save you!” Silver has no idea where that outcry had come from. At least Flint doesn’t seem injured this time: no blood on the furniture.

Flint laughs at him. “I appreciate your attempts at marine metaphors, Mr. Quartermaster!” Silver feels himself blush to the very roots of his hair and his wound sends an angry jolt up his thigh and into his hip joint. For a few moments, he forgets Flint, he forgets to breathe. “You should talk of saving, Mr. Silver,” Flint’s teeth are like shards of glass, gleaming in the dim light of his cabin. “I see you’ve given up on your own salvation, haven’t you?”

Flint’s hand shoots up to Silver’s throat, which is dry and bare, and with a sinking feeling in his gut he knows what Flint is referring to.

“Or did the cross no longer appeal for some other, less sentimental, reason?” Flint hisses, too close, far too close for comfort. Silver pushes him off with his forearm. “Get the hell out,” Flint barks at him, and reaches for the bottle of rum again. And for once, Silver is relieved to be dismissed in such a crude fashion. It means he can slam the door to the captain’s cabin and feel fully justified in doing so. He can embrace his own righteous anger.

He cannot think about the feel of the captain’s hands against his collarbones.

***

“It is his job to challenge you!”

“Get the hell out!”

Those are the last words Silver hears as he braces himself before entering Flint’s cabin. Two men are dead, two crew members, men he had been personally responsible for. Men he had personally selected to accompany Flint that night. Men he had inadvertently condemned to their deaths.

Billy Bones comes storming out of the captain’s cabin, all but colliding with Silver, both men’s arms bracing against each other to steady themselves in their fury.

“He’s in a mood,” Billy warns.

“I expect so, yes.”

Silver tries to give the bo’sun his most reassuring smile. He’s gotten good at this. He can get his lips to move _just so_. He’s practiced in front of a mirror someone had snatched during one of the last sallies. It didn’t use to be this difficult. He used to have better control of his facial muscles. He hadn’t realized when they cut off a part of his leg they would have also severed the nerves of his face.

“Good luck then,” Billy shrugs. His hand feels warm and oddly reassuring on top of Silver’s shoulder.

Silver takes a few deep breaths before placing his hand on the door handle. This is it - his _raison d’être_ after all. He is the quartermaster and without him the crew falls apart, et vice versa. Most importantly: vice versa. Once it becomes evident he is not up to the task, he could very well lose his position. And in this case, “up to the task” means specifically reigning in Flint. He braces himself for the incoming storm and walks in.

“Ah! Mr. Silver!” Flint seems drunk already. Quickly, Silver surveys the room for evidence of empty bottles and finds none. “I do not recall sending for my priest.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You have come here on behalf of my salvation again, have you not? To hear my confession perhaps?” Flint maneuvers behind Silver, making the hairs rise on the back of his neck. The sound of the door being bolted makes Silver’s heart race. “To grant absolution even?” Flint’s breath ruffles Silver’s hair.

This is not what he had been expecting - whatever the fuck this even is.

“Two men are dead,” Silver speaks tentatively.

“ _Requiescant in pace_ ,” Flint crosses himself with all the sincerity of a whore.

“Do you even care _at all_?”

“Going on the account is a dangerous profession, Mr. Silver.” Flint is smiling, all the way up to his eyes. It galls Silver that it apparently comes so easily to him. “Besides, it was not I who killed them.” He grins with a touch of cruelty and adds, “This time.”

Silver has no idea what to say. He isn’t often speechless, but Flint’s demeanor is so different from what his expectations had been, he thinks perhaps really has gone insane and the crew forgot to tell him. Perhaps he is the new Randall, after all, in more ways than one.

“Do you want me to repent?” Flint is standing close, too close. Suddenly Silver feels incredibly dwarfed by him. His broad shoulders, his perfectly round head (who knew Flint had such an attractive skull?), that neck that is as thick as a tree trunk. It will never break, no, not even if you were to wrap your thighs around it. _What the actual fuck, John Silver!_ he screams at himself. “Here,” Flint is sinking to knees before him, “I will repent and you will grant me absolution. Isn’t this how it works?”

“Get up…” Silver mutters. His own knees feel weak. His palms are sweating. “For god’s sake…”

“Yes, for His sake.” Flint grabs one of Silver’s hands and places it right over his own forehead. “Only say the words, Father, and I swear never to sin again.” He laughs, his teeth flash again, feral and deadly between his lush lips. _I am so monumentally fucked_ , Silver realizes with crystalline clarity.

“I don’t believe you,” Silver’s lips form words that he cannot believe, indeed. “You are a confirmed sinner, captain. An unrepentant sinner. And the gates of Hell gape open for you. You might as well…” his breath halts for a moment, “... keep sinning.” His hand slides down Flint’s face, not in benediction, but tracing the contours of his brow, his cheekbones, his chin.

“Well then,” Flint’s eyes are kindled with a softer fire now. “Am I to sin alone, Mr. Quartermaster?”

Silver swallows around the boulder in his throat.

“I came here to ask you what happened. To ascertain that it will not happen again.” He actually really hates himself at the moment. Quite a bit, it would seem. “That you not take unnecessary risks like you had tonight. That you…”

Flint’s hands are on the backs of his thighs.

“That you…”

“Yes?”

Flint’s hands are on his ass.

“How can you be thinking about fucking at a moment like this?” Silver hisses at the unrepentant reprobate on his knees before him.

“You’re gorgeous when you’re being all… _quartermasterly_.” Flint makes the word sound filthy. Silver thinks his ears might burst into flames just hearing Flint talk like this. The tone of his voice caressing him as surely as his hands. His hands… Jesus Christ, his hands… “What do you want, John?” Flint’s voice is a caress and his eyes are pits of emerald hellfire in which Silver thinks he’d be perfectly happy to burn.

***

It was never supposed to happen again, Silver thought at the time. A moment of weakness. Surely for both of them. Flint had seen him cry. And then Flint held him in his arms, while he wept, and drooled all over Flint’s shirt, especially where it gaped open over the captain’s chest, the heat of him rising up to envelop them both.

They were both grieving. They were both in pain. Locked in this fateful duel against the world, locked in the cage of the fucking warship. The door too had been locked. The captain’s eyes appeared shockingly wet. Neither one of them would ever admit to this moment again.

It never happened. The locking of lips. The sighs and groans as if they had both been scalded. As if Flint had branded his soul when he had sealed their mouths together.

It never happened. It never happened.

It would never happen again.

***

“Tell me what you want,” Flint insists, his hands squeezing the globes of Silver’s ass with masterly possessiveness.

“I just…”

“You what? Tell me, John.” The hands unclench, turn into a soft caress on his lower back. And Flint is still there, on his knees, just looking at him, and waiting.

“I want _you_.”

“You have me.”

“Do I?” Silver isn’t sure of much, but he’s pretty sure this last thing can’t be true. “This is a game you’re playing to distract me from my duty. It’s all about power games with you, that much I do know.”

“Then why am I the one kneeling at your feet?” Flint asks, his hands sliding down Silver’s legs to fall at his own sides.

“Because it amuses you?” Silver attempts to rationalize. “Or perhaps you’re testing me? Or because… you’re a fucking deviant, I don’t know!”

Something flashes in Flint’s eyes. A lightning that wipes out all playfulness of the prior moments. Flint rises up and moves out of Silver’s space and Silver feels suddenly frozen to the core.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean that,” Silver stutters. “ _God_.” His hand clutches at his neck, instinctively. He knows the cross will not be there. That sentimental token from his days at the orphanage, a reminder that he had only been allowed to live by the grace of God. “ _Please_ , Captain.” He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for, but he _needs_ it. Desperately.

“John.” Flint is leaning against the wall. One word, one look, Silver knows he’s utterly fucked when Flint can do this to him without even touching him.

He raises his hand and places it over Flint’s shorn head again. The short hair bristles softly against his palm and he thinks he could definitely get used to that feeling.

“ _Ego te absolvo_ ,” Silver whispers.

And then Flint’s fingers are wrapped around his wrist and he’s being pulled closer, closer still, until he practically tumbles over his artificial leg, and collides with Flint with his entire body.

“You have me. I swear,” Flint breathes right into Silver’s gaping mouth, before pressing their lips together with such ferocity that their teeth collide. If Flint’s arms weren’t supporting him bodily, Silver is pretty sure he would just slide embarrassingly to the floor, and possibly turn into a puddle of his own urine. That’s about how sure of himself he feels.

But Flint’s arms _are_ supporting him. More than that. Flint’s arms are caressing him, his hands are trailing comforting circles over the exhausted muscles of Silver’s back, clutching at his shoulderblades, fingers are slipping and pressing into the grooves between his ribs. _Jesus_. He doesn’t think he can take quite so much of this. It is too good. It’s so good, it makes him forget his pain.

The moan that escapes Silver’s lips might be the Lord’s name, but could actually be Flint’s. Who knows and who’s counting anymore?

“ _James_.”

Oh yeah, definitely Flint’s name then.

Flint turns them both and now it is the wall of the cabin that is buttressing Silver’s body. He’s grateful for the extra support because Flint is sinking to knees before him again and he is only vaguely convinced that he’s going to survive this encounter. Flint’s hands are on his legs again, fingers kneading his thighs as they beat a fearless path towards the buttons of his breeches. Silver knows he’s already as hard as rock, has been pretty much since the moment he walked in here and found Flint making blasphemous innuendo at him. _God help them both_.

It’s a habit. God doesn’t give a fuck. Silver knows this. If God is watching, well, then he hopes the Almighty enjoys the show.

“ _James_! Oh god!”

“Captain is fine,” the smug bastard mutters into the overheated flesh of Silver’s cock as he mouths at it, rubs the scruff of his beard against Silver’s exposed balls that he cradles so gently in his hand. Flint’s tongue, _oh sweet Jesus_ , his magnificently talented tongue laps at Silver, toys with the slit, circles the head. Flint swallows his down with the look of a man who has been starved for this, lips and throat muscles working together in magical consort to drive Silver to the last brink of insanity. His hands scramble for something to hold onto and end up on the nape of Flint’s neck.

“ _Fuck_!” Silver bites out. “How are you so good at this?”

It doesn’t matter. Even if the captain has sucked a hundred pricks in his time, _this_ time, this moment is all Silver’s.

He feels Flint hum against his engorged cock, sending shocks of pleasure all the way up his spine and right to his head, which he lets roll with a thud against the wall. Flint pulls off just long enough to suck one of his balls into his furnace of a mouth and Silver closes his eyes because the sight alone of Flint doing this is going to cause him to burst into flames. The wet heat of the captain’s mouth toys with him, the scalding of his breath, the rough feel of his facial hair as he rubs against the most sensitive parts of Silver’s skin.

Flint’s hand sneaks under Silver’s shirt now. Running up his perspiring abs, fingers pressing possessively into the shuddering flesh there, until they reach one nipple and squeeze it firmly between the thumb and the index finger, rolling it between his deft digits.

“ _Jesus!_ ”

Another chuckle from below his belt and Flint can’t respond because his mouth is full of Silver again and he’s moaning around his cock as if he is the Holy fucking Trinity rolled up into one. Silver’s knees weaken. His hips thrust forward in a fit of growing desperation. Flint’s fingers squeeze tightly around his nipple again and Silver is shoving his own fist into his mouth to keep from crying out as he shoots a hot load down his captain’s throat.

***

There is a chair under his ass. Silver doesn’t quite recall how it got there, but he suspects Flint may have had something to do with it. His cock also appears to have been neatly tucked into his breeches again.

Flint is sitting on the other side of his desk, quietly drinking his rum, as if nothing untoward happened at all.

Maybe nothing did? Perhaps Silver had imagined the whole thing? He eyes the captain warily, looking for the smallest clue of where he stands. Why must he be cursed to perpetually be wondering where the two of them stand!

“In the future,” Flint is saying with that air of nonchalance that Silver knows so well, “I would thank you not to question my methods.”

“It’s my job to question your methods,” Silver mutters through a haze that is refusing to lift from his mind.

“Well, you asked me to take extra men with me on the last sally, and look what became of it.”

“Don’t tell me you let them die just to make a fucking _point_!” Silver snaps and suddenly there they are again: captain and quartermaster. He knows this part. He can do this. A sudden wave of gratitude washes over him. He’s grateful to Flint for being such an utter _prick_.

“I’m merely trying to point out that I have more of an instinct for this kind of thing than you do. And if you’re going to insist on questioning me, then you must be willing to accept consequences in case of failure.”

“So noted, captain,” Silver squeezes between his teeth as he gathers himself up and out of the chair.

“Thank you for your concern,” Flint says, eyes fixed on his cup and pointedly avoiding Silver’s own. “If there’s nothing else…”

“I’ll show myself out,” Silver states curtly. His leg feels heavier than usual as he drags it along the floorboards of Flint’s cabin.

“John,” Flint’s voice halts him as he is about to reach the door. “I mean it. Thank you.”

They won’t talk about this again, Silver knows. This too shall pass. Like a mare in the night, fleeting and terrifying, and known only to Morpheus.

Until the next time they choose to dream again.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know that it is unlikely that Flint and Silver would have resorted to Latin since they were very likely not Catholic, but I chose to indulge my own personal kink. Forgive me. ;)


End file.
